“Well, aren’t you the well-read detective, Detective Bosch.”

“Not really. I once lived with a woman who taught junior lit at Grant High in the Valley. It was one of the books she taught. I read it then. Anyway, the image that sticks with me from ’ninety-two is Frederick’s of Hollywood.”

“The lingerie place?”

Bosch nodded.

“I pulled up there and the place was swarming. Multiracial, multiage, people who had just lost it. They cleaned that place out in about fifteen minutes. I mean, everything. When they were done I walked in there and there was nothing left. They even stole the manikins. Absolutely nothing but the hangers left on the floor and the chrome display racks… and the thing is, all it had been was underwear. Four cops get off for beating the shit out of Rodney King on video and people respond by going nuts and stealing underwear. It was so surreal that that’s what comes into my head when people bring up the riots. I remember walking around in that empty store.”

“It didn’t matter what they took. They were acting out frustrations. It’s like the Thigh-Masters. That father and son didn’t care what they took. The important thing was that they took something, that in some way they made a statement. They had no use for those things but by taking them they were showing The Man. That’s the lesson the father taught his son.”

“It still doesn’t make – ”

Bosch’s phone rang and he opened it. It was Eleanor.

“You winning?” he asked.

He said it with a happy inflection and then immediately realized he had said it in such a way so that his passenger might not surmise what was really going on with his marriage. At once he felt embarrassed and guilty that he would even let what Entrenkin thought or interpreted enter into his relationship with Eleanor.

“Not yet. I just got here.”

“Eleanor, I want you to go home.”

“Harry, we’re not going to talk about this now. I – ”

“No, I’m not talking about all of that. I think the city… have you watched the news?”

“No. I’ve been coming here.”

“Well, it doesn’t look good. The media’s lighting the match, Eleanor. And if something happens and the city goes, you’re not in a good place to be.”

Bosch took a furtive glance at Entrenkin. He knew he was acting out white paranoia in front of her. Hollywood Park was in Inglewood, a primarily black community. He wanted Eleanor back at their home in the hills where it was safe.

“Harry, I think you’re being paranoid. I’ll be fine.”

“Eleanor, why take the – ”

“Harry, I have to go. They’re holding my chair. I’ll call you later.”

She hung up then and Bosch said good-bye to a dead line. He dropped the phone onto his lap.

“For what it’s worth,” Entrenkin said, “I think you’re being paranoid.”

“That’s what she said.”

“I’ll tell you right now there are as many blacks as whites, maybe even more, who don’t want to see it happen again. Give them the benefit of the doubt, Detective.”

“I guess I don’t have a choice.”

The Hollywood station seemed deserted when Bosch and Entrenkin arrived. There were no patrol cars in the rear lot and when they came through the back door the rear hallway, usually abuzz with activity, was empty. Bosch stuck his head through the open door of the watch office and saw a lone sergeant at a desk. A television mounted on the wall was on. There were no flames on the screen. It showed a news anchor in a studio. The graphic hanging over his shoulder was a photo of Howard Elias. The volume was too low for Bosch to hear what was being said.

“How we doing?” Bosch said to the sergeant.

“Hanging in. For now.”

Bosch knocked twice on the door and headed down the hallway to the detective bureau, Entrenkin following. Rider and Edgar were already there. They had rolled the television out of the lieutenant’s office and were watching the same news report. They saw Bosch and Entrenkin and the surprise registered on their faces.

Bosch introduced Entrenkin to Edgar, who had not been in Elias’s office that morning. He then asked what the latest news was.

“The city’s holding tight, it looks like,” Edgar said. “Couple fires and that’s it. Meantime, they’re pretty much making Elias into Saint Howard. Not much said about what an opportunistic asshole he was.”

Bosch glanced at Entrenkin. She showed nothing.

“Well, let’s turn it off,” he said. “We have to talk.”

Bosch brought his partners up to date and showed them the three anonymous notes that had been mailed to Elias. He explained Entrenkin’s presence and said he wanted to try to get Harris’s cooperation and at the same time eliminate him as a potential suspect in the killings.

“Do we even know where Harris is?” Edgar asked. “He hasn’t shown up on TV that I’ve seen. Maybe he doesn’t even know about Elias.”

“Well, we’ll find out. His current address and phoner were in Elias’s files. Looks like Elias was putting him up, probably trying to keep him out of trouble before the trial. He’s close by – if he’s home.”

Bosch got out his notebook and got the phone number. He went to his desk and called it. A man answered.

“Can I speak to Harry?” Bosch said good-naturedly.

“No Harry here, man.”

The phone was hung up.

“Well, somebody’s home,” Bosch said to the others. “Let’s go.”

They drove in one car. Harris currently lived in an apartment on Beverly Boulevard near the CBS complex. Elias had put him into a large complex that wasn’t luxurious but was more than nice. And downtown was a straight shot down Beverly.

There was a security door but Harris’s name was not on the list of occupants next to the door phone. Bosch had the apartment number but this did not mean anything. The phone codes following occupants’ names did not correspond with apartment numbers for security reasons. Bosch called the code number for the building’s manager but got no answer.

“Look at this,” Rider said.

She pointed to a listing for E. Howard. Bosch shook his shoulders as if to say it was worth a try and punched in the number. A male voice answered and Bosch thought it was the same voice that had answered his earlier call from the station.

“Michael Harris?”

“Who is it?”

“LAPD. We need to ask you some questions. I – ”

“No fucking way. Not without my lawyer here, you don’t.”

He hung up. Bosch immediately called back.

“What the fuck you want?”

“In case you don’t know it yet, your lawyer is dead. That’s why we are here. Now, listen and don’t hang up. I have Inspector General Carla Entrenkin here with me. You know who she is? She’s going to make sure you are treated well. We just need to – ”

“She the watchdog lady, ’sposed to tell when the LAPD is runnin’ roughshod?”

“That’s her. Hold on.”

Bosch stepped to the side and handed the phone to Entrenkin.

“Tell him he’s safe.”

She took the phone, giving Bosch a look that said she now realized why he allowed her to come along. She spoke into the phone while looking at him.

“Michael, this is Carla Entrenkin. You don’t have to worry. No one is here to harm you. We need to ask you about Howard Elias, that is all.”

If Harris said anything to her Bosch didn’t hear it. The door lock buzzed and Edgar pulled it open. Entrenkin hung up the phone and they all went in.

“The guy’s a mutt,” Edgar said. “I don’t know why we’re treating him like a saint.”

Entrenkin gave Edgar her look then.

“Yes, you do, Detective Edgar.”

Edgar was sufficiently cowed by her tone.

When Harris opened the door of his fourth-floor apartment he was holding a gun at his side.

“A’right, this is my home,” he announced. “I don’t mean to be threatenin’ anybody but I need this for my pers’nal comfort and protection. Otherwise, you ain’t comin’ in the place, know what I mean?”

Bosch looked at the others, got no read, and looked back at Harris. He tried to contain his fury. Despite what Entrenkin had told him earlier, he still had little doubt that Harris was the murderer of a child. But he knew that what was important at the moment was the current investigation. He had to put his enmity for the man aside in order to extract whatever information he had.